Famous Last Words

Doug FuchsCornerstone Submission Form

Table of Contents

In Which There are the Last Words of Famous People .................................................. 2 The Final Letter .............................................................................................................. 3 On That Bench ............................................................................................................... 5 Deep, Dark and Blue ...................................................................................................... 6 Rising (Deep, Dark, and Blue, Part 2) ............................................................................. 6 A New Day ..................................................................................................................... 7 Run ................................................................................................................................. 7 To be Human ................................................................................................................. 8 The Piano ...................................................................................................................... 8 Marching Band ............................................................................................................... 9 The Edge of the Woods ............................................................................................... 10 Save Me....................................................................................................................... 11 After ............................................................................................................................. 12 Life is Simple ............................................................................................................... 12 No More ....................................................................................................................... 13 Tiger Painting ............................................................................................................... 14 Tunnel of Trees ............................................................................................................ 15 Florida Sunrise ............................................................................................................. 15 Lake Torch ................................................................................................................... 15 Icy Road....................................................................................................................... 15 Waiting Line ................................................................................................................. 16 Pittsburgh Panorama ................................................................................................... 16 The Brain ..................................................................................................................... 17 Well-Organized Mind.................................................................................................... 17 Love ............................................................................................................................. 18 Crossing of Tranquility ................................................................................................. 19 Ferris Wheel ............................................................................................................... 20 Colors of the Wind ....................................................................................................... 21 Blue Tranquility ............................................................................................................ 22 Palm Tree .................................................................................................................... 22 Rock Island ................................................................................................................. 22 The Lighthouse ............................................................................................................ 22 Roll on Rollercoaster .................................................................................................... 23 Up Close and Personal ............................................................................................... 23 Going Green ................................................................................................................ 23 The Cheese Stands Alone ........................................................................................... 23 Paradise....................................................................................................................... 23 Untitled ........................................................................................................................ 24 Pinky Promise .............................................................................................................. 24 There’s Ryan on the Couch.......................................................................................... 24 Summer Skin ............................................................................................................... 24 Celebration .................................................................................................................. 25 La Belle Tour Eiffel ....................................................................................................... 25 Annecy, France ............................................................................................................ 25 Hand ............................................................................................................................ 25 My Musical Love .......................................................................................................... 26 An Unfamiliar Reality.................................................................................................... 27 We’ll Survive ................................................................................................................ 28 Ode to Roommate ........................................................................................................ 28 Shadowing ................................................................................................................... 29 I Like the Rain .............................................................................................................. 29 Sleep ........................................................................................................................... 30 Wash Me Away ............................................................................................................. 30 Grandpa Birdwatcher ................................................................................................... 31 The Chills and Thrills of Winter .................................................................................... 31 Lost and Found ............................................................................................................. 32 Seeing a Soldier Off ..................................................................................................... 33 The Peculiar Disappearance ........................................................................................ 35 Artificial Love ............................................................................................................... 37 Acknowledgements and Staff ....................................................................................... 40

Copyright © 2011 Cornerstone

In Which There Are the Last Words of Famous People Adam McConville

“The nourishment is palatable,”Millard Fillmore allegedly said. He ate his soup and in three hoursHe was, regrettably, dead. On his last night, Teddy RooseveltDid shout, “Put out the light.”Close to the end of the Civil War,While fighting Confederate resistance,General Sedgwick, perhaps foolishly, said,=“They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist…”Oscar Wilde bid his life ‘Adieu’ in just one line of prose;“Either that wallpaper goes or I do.”“Am I dying or is this my birthday?”Lady Nancy besought Of those who stood around her;Alas, her birthday it was not.As looming death did call, Lord Winston ChurchillDrily observed, “I am bored with it all.”When asked what she had want ofBefore drawing her last breath,Jane Austen told her sister,“I want nothing but death.”

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The Final Letter Anonymous As I stand on the beach where my father had always brought me as a child, I feel my toes sink into the thick, damp sand. Looking nostalgically towards the incoming storm clouds, I remember the last time I was here. September 1942. Each day I read newspapers proclaiming the ongoing war over-seas. My brother had left home as soon as he was of age to fight. His absence left a cold feeling of desertion in my heart, but that feeling faded with the need to support my now desperate family. The only place in the world I could see any light, any good, was the beach, the beach with my father. It was our place. On the hardest days, when my mother sat in her rocking chair, out of tears, but never short of despair, my father took me to the beach. There we would walk. Sometimes he told me stories of a wonder-ful future where things are different, better. Other times, words weren’t needed. The simple presence of the other’s company was enough. “Don’t ever leave me,” I begged once. He only smiled at me, and we kept walking. One day, he asked if we could sit down, and we did. The sun was setting be-hind gray clouds, ever darkening. The beach was silent, save the meager rolling of the small waves. I could hear them growing into stronger crashes as the storm progressed, but at that moment, they were soft enough that I could hear my father’s breathing. A soundless breeze blew hair into my face as I stared into my father’s unreadable expres-sion. I’d known this day was coming, since the day my brother left. I knew my father wouldn’t be far behind. I was prepared for this moment. “I’m leaving,” he said, quite simply. But through all of that simplicity, I heard the weight of the world in his voice. He wanted to say so much more, but he was wise enough to keep it short and quick, to avoid too much despair on my part. I didn’t cry; I stared out into the ocean, above to the oncoming clouds, down at the sand, and finally to my father beside me. I looked at the man, still in the prime of his life, yet one hundred years old. I looked at the man who had raised me, who knew me better than anyone else. I looked at the man I trusted. And so I trusted him with this. Through the pain of him leaving us, I trusted that he had made the right choice. The next day, mother and I saw him off. We then moved in with our cousins where we counted on the monotony of each passing day to keep life simple, expecting no more and no less for the day after. He wrote to us, and I treasured each letter. As one year passed by, and then the next, he had less and less time to write to us. Still, I didn’t feel any resentment towards him. I loved him for all he had done for me. I respected him and the decision he made. Today, I stand on the beach for the first time since he left, holding the last letter I ever got from him. It’s been unfolded and refolded countless times, and the ink has all

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but worn off. A year has passed since I received those final words. His handwriting looked shaky and unstable, his words telling of disease and injury but hopeful recovery. For a while, I, too, was hopeful. We never got another letter. I hate not knowing, and I hate the endless wondering that I can’t ignore. I hate the unanswered questions. The open end to my father’s story came abruptly, without warning. Since then, things haven’t felt the same. When he left, he left me with a damaged and dangling heart, but his words kept that heart from hurting too badly. When his words no longer existed, it felt as though my heart didn’t either. As I take an uneasy breath of the salty air, I remember him. I remember all the times we shared. I remember the days we spent together and the night he left. As I’m thinking, I look up at the sky and out to the sea. Dark clouds are closing in around me, and the waves are growing larger and wilder. Instinct tells me that being so close to the waves is unsafe. My vision blurs, and I try to walk backwards, out of the water, but I’m shaking. Then I fall. Trembling, I wipe my stinging eyes. I reach into my pocket to pull out the paper, to grasp desperately onto the last piece of my father I have left. The letter is gone. I run frantically back into the water, picking up my steps as the dense wetness slows me down. It’s dark out and the storm is steadily progressing—just like the storm that came in on the last day I was here with my father. In the ocean and without much light, my efforts are hopeless. The waves crash around me, urging me out of the water. As I hesitantly decide to give up on the letter, I suddenly see a yellow piece of paper floating a few feet away. Without thinking, I dive for it. As I do, a wave larger than the others folds over top of me. The salty water fills my mouth, my ears, my nose, and burns my eyes. I can see nothing. Arms flailing, I’ve forgotten about the letter momentarily and wish only to breathe in air again. I start to grow tired and my body starts to fail me in my desperation. I close my eyes and stop struggling. What happens next, I can’t quite explain. Against the blackness of my eyelids, I see the silhouette of my father, outlined in a white light. Against all odds, he’s smiling. I try to hold on to this moment, even though I know it’s probably a product of my weary mind. As he retreats from my vision, I try to yell, I try to ask him to stay. No sound comes from me. “Don’t ever leave me,” he says as he disappears, and I open my eyes. I am back on the beach, and the letter, drenched with water and almost unrecogniz-able, is in my hand. I stand up shakily unable to grasp what’s happened. How did I get here? How did I get the letter? Was what I saw nothing but the result of my distressed imagination? I arrived at this beach looking for answers. Instead, I have more questions. As I start to leave, I take one last look at the storm. The deepening clouds darken the beach, and the chilling wind leaves me breathless and shivering. My clothes dripping and my mind drained, I begin the walk back home.

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On That Bench Ethan Gower

I remember sitting on that old wooden bench, looking out at the blue-green sea and the white waves crashing and frothing up on the rocks. I remember the breeze that rolled up from the ocean, carrying the mist and the salt with it. It howled and whipped around me, sitting on that old bench. I remember that cold, salty spray wetting my face as I sat on that bench. That bench, starting its slow, slow journey into decay, sitting at the top of the ridge, the gently slope down to the sand, down to the sea. Many times I must have sat there, too many to count. I had been coming to sit since I was nineteen. I came to think and to clear my head after a stressful day. I came to let my thoughts wash out with the tide and to let them drift away in the wind. It was cleansing, to have all my troubles wiped clean by the sea, by the wind, by just sitting on that old bench. I always sat; I never walked down the slope, across the beach. I never walked to the water’s edge and let the waves crash around me, draw me in. I never swam in the sea, never broke the tide with my feet, never dove into the surf. I’m not saying that I regret not jumping headfirst into the sea, not in the slightest. Some people prefer a dip into the cold sea to help them clear their minds, but not me. I’ve always preferred to sit pensively on that old bench. One day in particular stands out to me, even after all these years. I was sitting on the same old bench, thinking as I had done many times before. The sea was alive, turbulent; the waves crashes high upon the shore, throwing spray almost up to where I sat. I remem-ber tasting the salt on my lips as the clouds on the horizon painted the sky gray. Dark, black clouds, rolling closer, eagerly hit the coast. The sea danced and spat underneath these clouds as they poured rain from their dark bellies. I sat and watched them grow closer and closer, watched them until lightning split the sky and thunder crashed through my chest. I let the rain fall down around me, drenching me, soaking my clothes. The wind whipped off the sea with a fury now, bringing with it the rain that the sea kicked up by the storm. It hit my face and stung my eyes, but I still sat, watching the raging sea. I found the storm calming, though it swirled around me ferociously. It matched the thoughts swirling in my head perfectly and washed them away in the shower just as perfectly. I sat through the entire storm, watched the sea go from calm to boiling and return to calm. I didn’t move once. I sat and watched the sea until my clothes had dried and the sun began to peak out from behind the lingering clouds. And I continued to sit, reveling in the peace in the wake of the storm, until there were no signs that a storm had even ripped past the coast. I sat until the sun rested on the horizon, making the blue of the sea twinkle blood red, until the last sliver of the sun sunk into the sea. I sat through it all, mind cleared as al-ways after I stare into the sea. There, on that bench.

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Deep, Dark, and Blue Tessa Fraicola

Silence interrupted by crashing waves The waves tug at my feet dragging me inFish flee from their deep underwater cavesLovely colors stretch across bodies and fins

Coral grows and seaweed reaches upward Every kind of creature my eyes can seeFish with short noses and ones like a swordOnes that swim slow; some swim like a fast bee

The clear blue ocean: a quiet escapeAn escape from the noise so far aboveSeaweed wraps around my legs like a drapeTugging, pulling, trying to get out ofDragged farther down into the deep, dark blueBubbles surface with the last breath I drew

Rising (Deep, Dark, and Blue, Part 2) Tessa Fraicola

Water burns as it rushes in my lungsTry to pull away, but to no availThis can’t be happening; I am too youngSomething approaches, maybe a large whale

Happy memories flash throughout my mindI think of my family and friendsMy sight begins to fade; did I go blind?I go real still as it all starts to end

I feel tugging and thrashing as I riseA strong arm wrapped around my fragile waistThen I hear my parent’s sudden criesToday I still remember what I facedI am grateful for every breath I take

And happy for every day I wake

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Run Lauren Miedel

Run fasterKeep your paceDon’t fallYou have itYou don’t need themThey don’t deserve youYou don’t need the painKeep goingYou can make itDon’t stumbleThrough the doorIn the streetPast the treesFeet hitting the pavementLoving the feel of the windSprinting so fast you flyNot caring who you leaveYou are better than themNot vainJust, rightHold onLet go of all your worriesYou can outrun all your prob-lemsI promiseJust run

A New Day Anonymous

TonightI’ll stare at the ceilingAnd wish to be good enoughAnd wish to know the an-swersSilently wondering.

TonightI’ll think of all I’ve doneAnd remember the blurry pastAnd remember the harder timesImpatiently hoping.This morningI will wake up too earlyAnd see the sun shiningAnd see the light stream-ing inQuietly considering.

This morningSomething as simple as a breathOf the crisp cool airWill remind me that TodayIs a new day.

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To Be Human Brandon Yusko

Share with me your thoughts,Your ‘how to make it better’,Your sense of adventure,Question of life,Cry out to the truth, It listens.Is it not a gift to love?Speak your words so pensive,Your help me understand,’Your willingness to experience,Feel without bounds,Your presence warms the soul,Make it laugh.Each spacious sky I cherish!Chase your mind’s temptations,Your’long to find the answer,’Your forever dreaming heart,Embrace the rains of being,Let’s find out together,It’s waiting.

The Piano Emily Gregg

Grandma owned a magic loom,A warp of slender silver strings,Encased in elegant mahogany.Here, she would weave her melodies.A brilliant fabric of sound,Fabric of beauty.Beauty birthed from beauty.Enchanted wood fragranced with pol-ish,Three funny feet wearing stylish, brass shoes,And a long, white veil along the top.Shy and simple bride of modest melo-dy,Masking her blushing beauty.I hear the major and minor chords,Grandma lacing a harmonious weft,By her graceful, skillful fingers.How I wished my fingers to fly!So I’d weave music too,Weave beauty too.Burlap, all I could achieve,On Grandma’s loom for silk.Clumsy, clumsy fingers!Stumbling, tangled in threads of dis-cord.How could I ever become the next master weaver!The next beauty weaver!Throwing a punch at the 52 white teeth,Mocking smile laughing at my mis-takes! Hot tears falling on ebony and ivory, While frustration fuels a fire, Beneath my furrowed brow.Ugly furrowed brow!Grandma brushes back my hair.A cooling kiss against my forehead,A graceful finger traces my nose.

And she reminds me once again,These aren’t the only keys that unlock beauty.Leave, Search, Strive, Explore, Discover, Beyond.I must find my own loom,And become my own master weaver.

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Marching Band Jaqualynn M. Anderson

1, 2, 3, HIT!5, 6, 7, HIT!Cover Down!Guide Right!

These can only mean but one thing. . .Band, but not any band, Marching Band.

This life we all now live.The sounds of whistles,

The clicks of snares,The music played so loud,

Our steps all in unison.Practices to Parades,

From Parades to Half Time.They are all moments for us to shine,Uniforms adding the drama we need.

From the 30 to the 50,Playing 20 notes per step,

The Flags adding our beauty,The Batons adding complexity.

Banner, Band Front, Clarinets, then Piccolos,Flutes, then Trombones, to Baritones, and Mellos,

Bari Saxes to Tenor Saxes, Alto Saxes to Trumpets,To Tubas to the Drumline,Marches the Entire Band. There, on that bench.

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The Edge of the Woods Caitlyn CommThere is a place where the backyard ends.Where a child’s small world extends.Across the bridge and through the weeds,Tall buttercups thrive and a waterfall feeds.

Up current-smoothed rocks we climb, we climb.We conquer the hill wrapped in wild cat thyme.Once a dirt road, the path we now takeHas become twin brown mounds kicking up in our wake.

We know we are close when we top the last peakThe edge of the woods marks the place that we seek.It’s distinctive round shape stands apart from the rest.We glance up at the sky as the moon starts to crest.

While the sun disappears and the nightlife begins,The tree’s main attractions spread sleepy wings,For we did not come this far just to seeA perfectly circular mushroom tree.

The excitement we felt has built up to this momentWhen the bugs come alive to fulfill our enjoyment.They light up the sky like so many small stars,Those fireflies dance like green creatures from Mars.

But after a while yawns escape our young mouths,And with a sad little wave we returned to the house.Though the next time we ventured beyond the backyard,The stump in its place broke my poor little heart. bugs come alive to fulfill our enjoy-ment.They light up the sky like so many small stars,Those fireflies dance like green creatures from Mars.

But after a while yawns escape our young mouths,And with a sad little wave we returned to the house.Though the next time we ventured beyond the backyard,The stump in its place broke my poor little heart.

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Would you take me in? Would you be my Warrior?My protector?My savior?

Save me from myselfStop time in its tracksMake this be foreverLet this be real

As sweet as a dreamI forgetYou really existI can actually touch you

This is bothA gift and a curseSo amazing, so deadlySave me

Save me from timeDeath himselfTake the knife awayAnd give me new life

Give me a chanceA chance to fix it allTo confess my mistakesTo let you go

You gave me all thisAnd so much moreOnly three words come to mindAt the mention of your name

Nothing could make me happierOr more sadThan you canSave me

Save me from love’s painCut the bondKeep me safeKeep my heart whole

Save me from it allChase the nightmares awayBrighten the darkHold me tight Save me, save me, save me. . .

Save Me Justin Croushore

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After Megan FairThe glimmer of blue and red lights, a road coated in puddles and miniature streams.People walking. Cars fill the streets in long lines.Everyone pointing. Pointing.Pointing at loss.A nauseated stomach.Devastation for the loss, Loss of home, Loss of memories, Possessions Dreams.Tears. Packed bags.Sadness.Hope.Hope in the form of kind, sympathetic faces and offers of shelter and aid.Hope for a better tomorrow.Blue and red lights.Looking for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Life is Simple Morgan StonerLife is actually- quite simple-,It has its lines-vines- and tryng times-,But in the end what happens to all of us one may see-Is that even the best of us- even a hard working-frantic farmer- shall die- on the drop of a dime.So when it all comes down to the simple facts-Why does one go through life- with many regrets?And why the senseless and tiring motions, if what we have is a gift?And why must we buy- and buy- until our life in one giant debt?Because- life is quite simple-In fact, we are only human as one may see-And with selfish acts- come selfish needs-To prosper- grow- and enjoy simple things like the sand between your feet-Because when it comes right down to it- we’re only human- and selfish indeed.

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No More TJ Ohler

The phone rang and rangWhen I answered my life changed.No more innocenceNo more was my happiness

They told me her kidneys failed.I listened but spoke littleMy heart burst and pain prevailedFor I no longer had a mom to cuddle.

Forever. Gone Forever.My snide remarks no longer cleverNo more smiling eyesNo more o f the petty arguments.

Ringing through my ears that doesn’t ceaseShe held me at birth and left so soonAnd tomorrow mourn the deceased,Wrapping myself in a cocoon

A cocoon that shields me from the lossThat crawled and embossedMy skin with a painful memoryOne I want no more

As this cocoon I built drifts away in the windI know one simple truth that has not dwindledShe loved me as much as I loved herMother and son, forget no more

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Tiger PaintingAndee Stynchula

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Florida SunriseAaron Gettemy

Lake TorchAaron Gettemy

Tunnel of TreesAaron Gettemy

Icy RoadAaron Gettemy

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Pittsburgh PanoramaCody Miller

Waiting LineCody Miller

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Folio Copy

A Well-Organized Mind

The BrainCaitlyn Comm

Caitlyn Comm

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LoveDarien Jeffries

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Crossing of Tranquility Michael Brooks

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Ferris Wheel Kaylee Merkovsky

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Colors of the Wind Kayla Lent

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Palm TreeBrandon Farrell

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Rock IslandBrandon Farrell

Blue TranquilityJ.C. Abdallah

The LighthouseMegan Fawcett

Darien Jeffries

Roll on Rollercoaster

Briana Martz

Briana Martz

Briana Martz

Briana Martz

Briana Martz

Up, Close, and Personal

Paradise

Going Green

The Cheese Stands Alone

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Folio Copy

Caitlyn Comm

Summer SkinKayla Ali

Pinky PromiseJohn Tieh

Untitled

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There’s Ryan on the CouchRyan Zidek

Kailey Miller

HandDolan Facchine

La Belle Tour EiffelAngela Petrosko

CelebrationJaqualynn Anderson

Annecy FranceAmy Jo Sarracino

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Aaron Gettemy

Notes, my joy

Ledgers, my mind

Lyrics, my words

Instruments, my voice

Music is my life

The steady beats

The controlling tempo

An overwhelming sound

It leaps into my ear

And then into my heart

When I hear music

I feel loved

When I hear the beat

I feel joyous

When I hear those lyrics

I feel invincible

When I hear those notes

My heart pounds and pounds

So many rhythms

Endless melodies to explore

The undefined notes

May I see the score?

I want to learn how to play

I want to learn how to say

Every day, every minute

I hear music all around

No matter how quiet

I hear it sound

It’s in my head

Never ending it is

All your notes and rhythms

I hear your music

With it, your voice

And with all my heart

I play it too

Loving my musical love

And how I play my music

Depends on you

My Musical Love

Play for me

I’ll play for you

Sing a tune

I won’t give you the cue

Please, love, please

Your music inspires me

As I have to you

Your voice, a song in itself

A tune that always flows through it

Your heartbeat, a beat like a drum

You are music within yourself

Now, express it

My Musical Love

Never stop playing

Never stop playing your own tune

My Musical Love

Inspire me

My Musical Love

I shall love always

My Musical Love

Loving always

My Musical Love

Never will realize

How he inspires

All those desires

Our love, a song within itself

My Musical LoveJaqualynn Anderson

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An Unfamiliar Reality Helana Zimmerman

Grey and green enclosed the townInching slowly toward the groundCries for caution blown awayBy the citizens that daySeverity to them unknownStarted with a pelting toneHail plunged from the beastly sky As serenity waved goodbyeWinds circled and took their formChaos proportioned with the stormDestruction spread unstoppableBy any defense possibleBy any defense possibleAlarms sounded from damage doneCrashes louder than a gunLights jolted out, and in the darkA storm the sea, a funnel its sharkCaved in roofs and shattered glassResulted from the violence passedRising from the ground to viewOnce a neighborhood now a zooDark days follow for those involvedUntil the chaos is resolvedThe band of men built up to fightWill soon restore the faded lightAnd in the aftermath of horrid strifeComes construction of a new life

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We’ll Survive David LiottaThe world is full of danger,The poor and the diseased,Where everyone’s a stranger,And everyone’s unpleased.

Justice is scarcely found,Peace is lost in war,And death, for many, comes around,Knocking at the door.

People turn their backs on life,Kill it, and kill it still,But we’re the ones who hold the knife,With no right to kill.

The legacies of our past, have vanished into air,And memories thought to last,Now aren’t even there.

Our elders receive no respect,They’re forgotten and left behind,We find no time to reflect,What they gave to mankind.

Our youths have no grasp of right and wrong,These two they can’t discern,They have no goals to keep in sight,No morals they must learn.

And the rest of us do not care,About the trouble we are in,We turn our cheek and wrongly dare,To commit another sin.

We face violence every day, and problems lay unseen,The goal in life fades away,Our souls remain unclean.

Of all these things that aren’t right,In a world that’s turning bad,There’s still one thing to keep in sight,One thing that must be had.

Hope is what we need to live,To fruit our lives anew,To take and spread and get and give,Through me and back through you

To carry on day after day,Getting better and better still,To love and care in every way,To do good deeds and will.

And on the day that hope prevails,The human race will fly,To row our boats and lift our sails,

As we reach and touch the sky!

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Ode to the Roommate Marlee Grant

The smell of burning hairand spoiled sour creamwafts through the air,inescapable it may seem.The temperature is 48,no lower, yet no higher.The reason for my icy fate?Her tendency to perspire.She hates me, so I fill with fearas she shoots me that “innocent” smile…“Could you fetch me breakfast dear?The walk there seems a mile.”It takes all my might not to say,“I only have two arms!”Yet somehow, here I am today,pouring her Lucky Charms.Trudging up the stairs once more,cursing as I trip,I gag as my roommate yells from the door,“My toenails could use a snip…”So does it truly surprise youthat when I lost my key,I spent the night in a friend’s room,

Shadowing Brittany Jones

Black ink dribbles down upon the crisp white page,Dots turn into smudges,Smudges turn into stripes,Attempts to eradicate are simply futile,The shadows remain in a state of declination regardless of driven efforts,Yet with an optimist’s soul those beclouded marks become relics,Remnants of actuation,Pieces of a backdrop in a world of color,A flowing remembrance of the journey within the entity,Allure of the future captivated in each stroke,Every last mark becomes conditional to the masterpiece’s finality,Constituting a window to their soul.

I Like the Rain Anonymous

I like the rain.I like the drip, drip, drip of raindrops. Raindrops on the roof of a house, on the roof of a

car.Raindrops hitting the top of an umbrella, or on the hair on my head.

I like the thought of water falling down from the clouds,DownDown

Until it hits the humble earth. I like to look up to the sky when it rains. I let myself dive into its beauty, if just for a moment.

I like the rain.I like the smell of moist air, and the feel of damp grass between my toes.

I like that unseen mystery in every little raindrop’s journey.I never tire of the sound of thunder, or the brilliance of lightning. I don’t shy away from the wind, but rather, I turn to it. I soak in the story that the wind blows into my mind.

I like the rain.

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Sleep Robert Pokrzywa

Brief Coma:Your details make sense to me When eyelids cap the sky false sky when consciousness is the ground I float and I walkBy-products of rest, deep grogginess the swamp the blackness warmth insideFurious life within life, warmth inside I lay and I waitthe mental swamp and the physical blackness!No place NO PLACE No place for punctua-tionSubstituting symbols with sapThe better earth Oh, the lesser earth…

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Wash Me Away Jaqualynn Anderson

Wash me awayDown a river of loveDrown me if you pleaseI’ll be happy to do itBut only for you, my loveWash me awayTake me underOr will you leave me afloat?Capsize me please, my loveMy joy and happinessDepends on youDrown me, please, oh, pleaseWash me awayDrown me in your riverMake my boat leakWhether it fills slowly or fastIt will be worth my deathThe death of an old meA birth of a newI want to die, only for youDrown meCapsize meMy boat and I are readySo please, my loveWash me away.

Hope BuskirkSitting in his wooden chairWith binoculars dangling from his neckWatching the birds flit around the backyard feeders

Grandpa’s laugh is the sweet twinkling birdsong that he loves to hear so muchHis nose is round and redLike the breast of a cock robinHe reminds me of a spring SantaWith his beard so snowy white.

Sitting in his wooden chair Just outside the windowNow he flies with the birds.

The Chills and Thrills of Winter Hannah Sofia Leszczynski

Quietly, so silentlyEach snowflake falls.They land without a sound,And each comes gently down.I stand upon the snowy hill.So tall as a mountain cloud,I fall. I look toward the grand sceneOf each icy cluster alit with the gleamOf winter pasts, presents, and futures.I’ve never been deafened by such a silenceOr so enchanted by a cold, pale land.I venture out in thick, black glovesTo warm my frozen hands.I wrap a scarf twice ‘round my neckAnd slip into my boots,For if there ever was a sceneAs bleakly beautiful as thisI would not hesitate to bedeckMyself in these wool knits.

Grandpa Birdwatcher

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Lost and Found Tessa Fraicola As the hot sand whipped my face raw, I only felt numbness, as I stared into the face of my angel. Her gaze was heavy and the constant whoosh of her swaying wings sounded as if it were a tribal drum. Through her crystal, blue eyes my confusion, fears and tears are reflected back to me.

When my numbness begins to fade, I absentmindedly asked “Why?” That simple question, however, did not even begin to cover the mass of ques-tions that swarmed in my mind. Questions like, “Why now? How did this happen? And what happens now,” then spilled out of my mind and were spo-ken in a jumble of meaningless words. After my rambling came to a halt, I looked at the angel in hope that I might get some answers, but she only stood still. Her statue-like posture made her appear to be almost frozen in time.

Once I had completely calmed down the angel stretched her beautiful, snow white hand out toward me and said, “Come.” When I did not move, she swiftly stepped forward, and gripped my arm with a strength I would have thought impossible for a woman of her size. She whispered her apologies into my ear and then proceeded forward. Slowly we began to ascend into the heavenly white clouds that seemed to gleam with gold at the edges. With one last look down over my small, dingy village, a single tear slid down my face and fell into the sky.

This tear held all my thoughts of my lovely wife and my two young chil-dren who would be expecting me home for dinner later that night, and my thoughts of how they would feel when they realized I would not return. I knew that they would know that I had never wanted to leave them and that if I could I would be there every second of the day. I hope that they realize that I am in a better place and that for the rest of their lives I will watch over them with all my heart.

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Seeing a Soldier Off Hannah Sofia Leszcynski

I remember that day vividly, that terrible sweltering day. I recall how quickly my heart raced as it was slowly breaking and the tears swelled from my eyes. He stood there calmly and decidedly, but I knew he was afraid in-side. I could see it in the way he breathed. I don’t think he was scared of where he was going but of what he was leaving behind. I gazed up at his solid figure engraving the image in my mind of a tall, sturdy man with his hands behind his back, a grim, resolute face, and a pair of broad shoulders to carry the world upon. His dusty blue eyes stared wistfully at the sky, and in that sap-phire sky, I knew I would find his face every day of every month until he came home. He was a good man with an even better heart, and I knew that he would not change his mind. So many people loved him here in Ashton, North Caro-lina, and he loved it here himself; but all the begging and crying in the world couldn’t have kept him from leaving. He was the stubborn kind of person who knew what he needed to do, and then he did it. There was no bargaining with him. I won’t forget how handsome he looked in his clean, green uniform or how perfectly it fit him. He made an excellent soldier, even before his service had started. In my opinion, he was the only example of what a soldier should be: loyal, kind, brave, and intelligent. After staring at the clouds for what seemed like an hour, he shifted his eyes to mine and his expression became warmer. I couldn’t stand there and look at him without grimacing, desperately trying to fight back my tears as I thought about him fighting in a different battle. I had known him for only four years, but the years felt like an eternity. Father Time has a funny way of working, doesn’t he? I existed for twenty years before I met Jeremy, but once we crossed paths, it was impossible to turn back. We unexplainably and uncontrollably merged in one direction. Now, it felt like my heart was splitting in two and traveling across the ocean, only to be lost at sea. Time fooled me once again as the last few minutes dwindled by; I could not find the words for a proper goodbye as the shaky bus came rattling down the road. Before I could open my mouth or my unstable arms, the bus screeched to a halt.

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“So this is it,” I sighed. “No, this is nothing,” he smiled wearily. “This is goodbye,” I replied in a quivering voice. “I’ll be back before you can count to ten. Try not to miss me too much!” He always made light of serious situations. In spite of myself, I grinned. In that moment, I knew we wouldn’t seem so far apart after all. I kissed him to express the words I could not say, and he understood me with an unspoken telepathy between us. I felt his embrace loosen. I heard his boots climb aboard the vehicle with heavy footsteps, but I could not see him. This horrible bus had come to take him away from me, but I could not see his face fade away through the tinted windows. I couldn’t see him waving aimlessly to the crowd or the small flags in the hands of young children losing a father, or a brother, or a grandpa. I heard the sounds of gun shots, airplanes, panic, and of screaming troops. The gentle summer sunshine became the glare of an explosion in the desert afternoon. I could feel the adrenaline of a man fleeing for his life and falling for mercy into the lifeless sands of a thousand gen-erations. I did not know war. I was barely acquainted with hatred; but war was a different matter. War was a matter of hating without a pur-pose, hating because you were ordered to, and hating because it was the only thing your life depended on. I couldn’t see my soldier sitting on that bus, awaiting the doom of those heartless battlefields. How could the man I know and adore fight such an ugly creature? Jeremy was the definition of love, appreciation, simplicity, and wondrous beau-ty. He couldn’t belong where dead men lie. But there he went fighting battles because he felt like he ought to. I’ll always look back with pride at the way he fought for things without a moment of hesitation; he looked at everything head-on and approached it fearlessly. He came face-to-face with evil each day, and yet he remained an angel. He died battling the one thing he wanted this earth to overcome; hatred. He may have lost his life, but he hasn’t lost the war. Hatred may be one of humanity’s longest wars, and Jer-emy made a significant difference. He left this world teaching me how to love better than I ever realized. He was my reason for a small piece of beauty in a smaller town on the east coast, and it took twenty-four years for me to realize just how beautiful he truly was.

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The Peculiar DisappearanceA Fiction Noir Emily Cackowski The case of Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes began on a blustery, brisk evening in early April. Soon after receiving his latest assignment, Detective Richard Phelps sat in a dismal little coffee shop in the slums, sipping a half-cold cappuccino. His part-ner, Charlie Ericson sat beside him. The two men stared down at a black-and-white photograph of the missing Mrs. Knellbrooke-Dawes. “Pretty broad,” Charlie commented, puffing at the stub of a cigarette. “Rich broad,” Richard muttered with a scowl. “She was a model, the wife of a famous photographer. He took the photo.” “She looks pretty glum,” Charlie observed. “People are saying their marriage was bad,” Richard said glumly, lighting up a cigarette of his own. “What’s this smudgy stuff here?” Charlie asked, indicating several round shapes on the photo with a chubby, stained finger. His partner eyed him, annoyed. “Those are balloons, Einstein,” he snapped bitterly. “Oh.” They sat in silence after that. Clearly Mrs. Knellbrooke-Dawes and her husband’s partnership was not the only one that had taken a turn for the worst. Richard sighed, staring out the window at the rain. As he took a long drag of the cigarette in his mouth, he wondered if his life would always consist of those three dismal things: coffee, cigarettes, and murder. The two men paid their check and left soon after, heading for the shiny black car parked out in the corner. Once both men were seated, Richard in the driver’s seat and Charlie riding shotgun, the car rumbled to life spewing a cloud of thick, choking exhaust and rumbling down the road to seek out their one and only lead. They were searching for the abode of one Boris Baranov, rumored lover and sup-posed kidnapper of Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes. He was also notoriously violent. Charlie was nervously turning the photograph over in his fat, ugly hands. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to go home. He certainly didn’t want to waste his night hunting for some gloomy, idiot broad. She probably deserved to be kidnapped anyway. Meanwhile, the silence between the two men had grown unnerving, so Charlie switched on the radio. It was set to some crappy classical station, and a soprano’s wiry voice warbled through the speaker: “Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I’ve found thee…” Richard swore loudly and shut the radio back off--glaring at Charlie as he did so. They sat in silence once more, until they had reached their destination. They stood at the mouth of a dark alley with a single dim light glowing some-where at the back of it. The rain had let up enough that both men could take a

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moment to light up their cigarettes. For a moment they stood, puffing away, and staring at the stretch of shadowed street before them and that one dim, yellowish light. A chill wind blew quite suddenly, ripping the photograph of Mrs. Ophelia Knellbrooke-Dawes out of his hand. Richard watched it as it was carried away by the wind and scowled at his partner again. With a shrug of indifference, Charlie asked sharply: “We going in, or what?” Richard tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. Then, with a sure step and head held high, he began the descent into the cold, dark mouth of the alley heading to the light at the very end. Charlie followed at his heels swear-ing and muttering. After what seemed like an eternity of walking down the shadowy, damp alleyway, Richard and Charlie stood before the source of the yellowish light. It was a doorway, left wide open to the elements. Smooth jazz music warbled from somewhere deep inside, as well as the distinct smell of hemp. The two men stood, staring for a moment, and then they heard it: laughter. The rich, robust laughter of a merry man and woman. Richard’s eye-brows shot up nearly to his receding hairline, and Charlie dropped his cigarette, and left it lying, burning dimly on the wet concrete. There were two people inside; one man and one woman. Could it be that the elusive Mrs. Knellebrooke-Dawes was there, and alive? The partners moved swiftly into the little backroom, following the music. They burst into the room of its origin flashing their police badges and glowering grimly. Two stunned faces stared back at them from the other side of the room. The first was that of a woman the detectives recognized all too well, the face of the girl in the photograph, and the other was the unfamiliar face of a broad, bearded man. For a long moment, the four people in the room stared at each other in a silence broken only by the music warbling from the gramophone. A gunshot was fired, followed by a second. Two of the four beings in that room were never heard from again.

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Artificial Love TJ OhlerDear Reader, I do not know who will acquire this, or if anyone ever will, but must tell my story. Not the whole story from the beginning, but only the part of my life that forever changed me and made me who I am. I wrote this as a teenager, hoping for someone to save me. Maybe my grams, papa, mom, or even my father, but that never happened. I was alone to deal with my future. This is my story, and though it’s only a memory of mine, I hope it may help whoever reads this. If you are reading this now, I hope you don’t live in this society I live. Maybe change has finally reached you, but if it hasn’t, know there are other who feel your pain. My grandma once told me of the olden days when love held no science or technol-ogy. It was a place where pheromones weren’t artificially created and provided to arrange marriages. Grams tells me all about how papa and her meeting in the little cafe in France, while she was studying abroad. She weaves a story from her memories about this gap-toothed smile and curly brown hair. She tells me about his lavish gifts to her even in their first week of knowing each other. “One day, Rosaline, he brought me a bouquet of white roses and told me I was a gift from the heavens.” She smiles every time she says this,” I was flattered by his gift, but I told him it was stupid for him to do so. We had only met several days before and I went to school in California and him in New York. I wasn’t really willing to date some-one long-distance. But he didn’t stop. I don’t know if it was the romantic city air with the Eiffel Tower or just the romantic at heart your grandfather was, but he stole my heart that week in Paris.” At this point I would ask her to describe this ‘tower’ she talked about. The only ref-erence I had to it was one measly picture my grams kept hidden from the Revolutionaries. The people who took over after Democracy failed us in World War III. She hid it in her shoe by folding it many times. Always she retells the fear she had as the Revolutionaries tore through the house as papa and she watched their belongings be destroyed. They saw all of their possessions that were deemed too joyous or non-modern be torn apart or taken away. Grams and Papa were even patted down and searched for any contraband items. Luckily, while they searched her, grams fell to her knees in sobs, stopping the Revo-lutionaries from finding the photo of the Eiffel Tower. I would look at this little treasure any time grams told the story of how she met my papa and married him in Paris. I’d run my fingers along the creases that formed after she folded it. I would stare at this ling fallen monument after the Quake of 2012. So much was lost that year, not just lives and history, but freedom as well. It seems to me that no one has free will. No one can love who they want because it’s picked for you when you turn sixteen. And now here I am writing this on my sweet sixteen (at least that’s what grams says they used to call it). By tonight I will know who the Council, of head Revolutionaries in charge of the area, will choose for me. I will spend the rest my life with, but what if I already have my eyes on someone special? What if this isn’t what I want?

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Maybe I want to be like Grams running into a complete stranger who sweeps me off my feet and convinces me to marry him after only knowing him a few days. However, this is not to be. I, Rose Lewis Marina, will marry a man I will not choose; quite possibly one I will never love for my heart belongs to another. I guess tonight I will see.

***** A crowd has already formed around the levitating, metallic platform, where Alfonzo Mar-quette stands at the podium ready with the several doctors and nursing aids who will inject the pheromones into the people whose birthday falls during this week. Though this is a common event, the crowd grows quickly as I start my walk up the metal stairs connected to the ground that leads to the floating floor. A banner hangs down from it. The words “Love is science,” were spread across the black sign in a reddish-pink hue. Aussie Bolt and my name are displayed in white paint under the words. Both of us will be injected with pheromones in the next hour. Grams stands near the front of the crowd along with my parents and Aussie’s father. Today is our big day. They wouldn’t miss it for the world. Aussie waits on stage behind Marquette and the doctors. “Hey,” he said, squeezing my hand in greeting. “Hi,” I reply. His hand stays intertwined in mine. Marquette begins the proceedings. “Now that our two sixteen year-olds are here, we can begin the ceremony. As you all know, this is the thirty-seventh year of the injection process. Every week, teens’ birthdays that fall during the week are given the pheromone injections, bind-ing them to their life partner.” People in the crowd look impatient at the explanation Marquette must provide every week. “It is my pleasure to be the proctor of this process for the past six years in our county. It’s time to begin. Aussie Bolt, please come forward.” Aussie holds onto my hand and looks in my eyes. “I love you,” he whispers. I answer back with, “I love you too.” I don’t think anybody notices this little exchange, but as my eyes travel from him to the crowd I see Grams frowning. Ever since childhood, Aussie and I have been close friends. We celebrated birthdays together, discussed English essays, and worked on boring history projects together, building a tight bond. I always thought that luck would run in our favor and allow the pheromone injections to link us together. However, now I’m not so sure. What if he gets caught in some older girl’s grasp? What if someone is waiting for him al-ready? The worst scenario: what if the pheromones make us hate each other and ruin our love and our friendship? I have no control in the matter and neither does he. The doctors and nurses surround Aussie like a pack of wolves waiting for poor Bambi to come trampling through the forest. Without a moment of hesitation, they pull his arm up and inject the scientifically-engineered pheromones into his arm. I see him wince and take a step back. Before I can see more of his reaction, Marquette is calling my name to step forward. “Rosaline Havens.” With one little prick in the arm, the process I’ve been dreading for the past year is over. My life will be different now. The crowd stares at the stage, waiting to see how things will turn out. Will Aussie and I fall for each other all over again? Will I bind with the creepy mid-thirties guy who lost his wife last week? Will it not work at all? All of these questions run through my mind as I take a step back to where Aussie should be standing. Unfortunately he isn’t there any longer. I twirl around looking for his straight brown hair. The crowd has dispersed, allowing a small space for Aussie to walk through. His steps are slow, almost hesitant, yet they still have a purpose. I feel an ache in my heart as he walks farther away from me. Why aren’t the pheromones making me love him less? His hand extends out and caresses someone’s face. I can barely see her through the crowd. Only her blonde locks of hair are visible. She steps closer to him and smiles. I re-member the girl now. She’s in the grade above us. On her ceremony day, she didn’t bind with anyone. Now I see the look in her eyes and now it’s how I look at Aussie. But the worst pain of all comes when Aussie turns my way. He stares at this girl I don’t even know, he only met her minutes ago.

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When his eyes finally drift from her, he sees me and doesn’t even smile. Now his eyes are blank as if he doesn’t even know me. Cold and Hard. Tears fill my eyes. I feel a pain in my chest and know it’s my heart breaking in two. Please just kick in already, I tell the pheromones that must be circling through my bloodstream now. Please just kick in. It’s hopeless though. My eyes follow Aussie and the blonde girl as they walk away down the cobblestone path leading to the garden outside the Revolutionaries’ offices. I watch as each step Aussie takes puts another hole in my heart. He doesn’t even take another look back at the girl he told he loved in the very same garden he now is walking to with another girl.A lone tear falls down my cheek as he fades into the distance; my heart still aching for his touch. He will never love me again. I fall on my knees in front of the crowd. The tears now pour down my cheeks. They feel like the pheromones washing out of my system. They couldn’t have worked. I wouldn’t care for him like I do now. Marquette pauses and takes a step back. “Ummm. I guess the ceremony is over folks. I’ll see you here next week.” He pushes a button on the podium that drops the levitating stage fall lightly to the ground. After the press of another button, the banner with “Love is Science” ejects and lays limp on the ground. Grams steps forward and embraces me. “It’s okay darling. Everything will be okay,” she whispers. “You’ll find someone soon.” She pulls me up off the ground. As the crowd dwindles, my mother and father stare at me as if I’m an alien. “You embarrassed us falling down on the ground like that,” father says snidely. Mother just shakes her head at me. Grams holds me closer. “Shush now. She is already upset. She doesn’t need your negative energy.” My parents stare at me and then at Grams. “She’s right. I know today was a big deal,” mom comes over and pats my head. “You just have to control your emotions better. The pheromones will kick in. There is no need to cry.” Without any more words, my parents walk away leaving my grandmother and me standing there. Everyone, including Marquette and the doctors, has already left. “You loved him, didn’t you?” Grams asks. I nod my head. “I still do.” With that, she squeezes me into a tighter hug. As she tries to console me with her words, my thoughts travel back to Aussie as he walked away without another thought. The pheromones worked so well on him and not me. Maybe it’s a gift I will treasure one day, or quite possibly the injection might not work on me. If that’s the truth, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to change this; change the way people view love as a science. People should be free to love who they want to. I shake off the tears and the pain for the moment. My heart with new resolve soars high. This is a secret gift. The world needs a change. I separate from grams with a quick thank you and a smile. I start to lead her down the same path Aussie went down only minutes ago. No, I will not pity my-self with what I have lost. No one should go through what I felt today. It’s wrong and cruel. I remember wishing this morning that I could go back in time and fall in love like grams did; however, that kind of thing is in the past. It’s time to make a new future. Maybe love won’t be the same as it was many years ago, but it can’t stay this way. Love is not a science. There shouldn’t be a trick or scientifically-engineered serum that designates who you will love. Love is supposed to be magical and free. When someone takes that freedom away, you need to stand up to whoever oppresses this magical wonder. People have created this artificial love that binds people together, but I do not believe for one sec-ond that this is real. My heart aching for Aussie is real. It is the truth. No artificially produced love could ever create feelings I have. I am sixteen but I know this to be true. Hopefully one day soon, the world will know too.

Acknowledgements

People (and inanimate objects) that we would like to thank…

Caitlyn Comm for naming the magazine…All of the students who submitted, giving us over 200 (223!!!) entries…The school computers for pulling through in the end…Quills, for allowing writing to be done at any time, in any place…Mrs. Knopf, our organizer, leader, informer, do-it-all-er, savior of the world…Mr. Westerlund, our technology guru (And Mr. Wasteland, because we love Spell Check)…Mrs. Staines, for encouraging HEP students to submit their work.The staff who dedicated both time and brain cells to put this all together…And pietoast, for not forgetting to be awesome…The English teachers and Art teachers, for encouraging students to submit their creative works…The Norse gods, because we must thank them or else be zapped into an alternate dimen-sion where we will be stuck forever.Mr. Preston, for an excellent job printing our magazine.

Staff

Kayla AliJackie AndersonEmily Anthony

Kyla BaerJulia BegemanBryony BrownHope Buskirk

Emily CackowskiCaitlyn Comm

Megan FairTessa FraicolaDoug Fuchs

Mara GloboskyMirissa Lentz

Adam McConvilleKatie McFadden

Kaylee MerkovskyLauren MiedelChristen Ross

Mollie SweeneyAlaina Ventura

Brooke Waugaman

JC Abdallah (12)Dolan Facchine (12)Brandon Farrell (12)Megan Fawcett (12)Aaron Gettemy (12)Emily Gregg (12)Brittany Lynn Jones (12)Kayla Lent (12)David Liotta (12)Briana Martz (12)Cody Miller (12)T. J. Ohler (12)Angela Petrosko (12)Bob Pokrzywa (12)Amy Jo Sarracino (12)Morgan Stoner (12)John Tieh (12)

Cornerstone ContributorsMichael Brooks (11)Doug Fuchs (11)Ethan Gower (11)Kailey Miller (11)Brandon Yusko (11)Helana Zimmerman (11)Kayla Ali (10) Emily Ann Cackowski (10)Megan Fair (10)Darien Jeffries (10)Hannah Sofia Leszczynski (10)Kaylee Merkovsky (10)Andee Stynchula (10)Ryan Zidek (10)Jaqualynn M. Anderson (9)Hope Buskirk (9)Caitlyn Comm (9)Justin Croushore (9)Tessa Fraicola (9)Marlee Grant (9)Adam McConville (9)Lauren Miedel (9)